Down Girls, Down!
Yesterday’s morning commute was nothing less than pure joy—both my lines were nearly empty of people, and that’s the way it should be. No people equals less hassle. I left home at the same time this morning, hoping for a similar ride. Alas, like everything Metro, it was just a quirk, happenstance, mere stroke of luck.
Today’s ride wasn’t unsavory so much as it was painful, literally. My ride on the first train was lengthy, filled with long pauses in between stations and waits at the stations. When I transferred to my next train, that’s when the pain began. The conductor was either new, a horrible driver, or simply drunk. This was all I could determine from the lurching, crawling train as I held onto a bar, my poor left wrist being driven through motions it was never intended to experience. I have a hard enough time with my wrists as is—IP often hears me yelping in agony when he grabs my wrist to stop me from successfully pinching his puffed out cheeks, and my little brother was always yelled at for grabbing at my wrists. They’re delicate, men. Learn it already. They’re skinny and not altogether strong. There’s a reason why my wrist bone sticks out here.
As I swayed back and forth on the Metro, simultaneously getting carpal tunnel syndrome and a nasty case of whiplash, I had the opportunity to examine myself in the Metro train’s windows. Nice legs, nice hips (I need to learn belly dancing and show them off), and slim waist. Not happy with the arms, but—oh my God, what the hell happened to my boobs?
Last I weighed myself, I had gained 10 pounds since my move to D.C. This puzzled me—I knew that some of it was muscle in my legs, as they are now leaner and my pants are all looser on me. I knew that some of it was simply fat—I had been eating way too much, which I have now curbed somewhat successfully. But taking a good look at my boobs on the Metro today, I realized where the rest of it had gone. My boobs looked huge, and I was not a happy camper.
And before anyone gets smart, I’m not pregnant; my boobs are simply getting bigger. Both facts will no doubt delight IP.
Unless they’re filling with milk, I do not want bigger breasts. When I was in college, I was a petite, perky 34A. I am now a less petite, still perky 34B. God forbid I ever reach 34C, because I will then have to do something drastic. Large, bouncing breasts are the last things I want as a runner, and definitely the last things I want as a woman. I do not need men staring at my breasts more than they already do. And I certainly don’t want to see them in all their huge glory, reflecting back at me through the Metro train windows.
Like I said: Large breasts as a result of pregnancy and nursing? Fine, I’ll deal, at least until the point where a reduction is in order and kids are no longer feeding off of me like lactose-only zombies (except they’re, you know, cute zombies). But simply because of a tiny bit of weight gain? Nope, sorry girls; you’re going back down again, like it or not.
